Amor et Veritatem
by TheSherlockedInvaderKyt
Summary: When Sherlock feels a pain birthed of love and what he thinks is the truth, what will it take for him to come to his senses? JohnLock, Angst, Fluff, Major spoilers to The Scandal in Belgravia in the prologue. K  rating for Language
1. Chapter 1

**_Sherlock - Amor et Veritatem (A JohnLock fiction)_**

**_Prologue - In which the reader observes the unseen thoughs of John during his meeting with Irene Adler._**

**A/N- On the day I began writing this, I had just been watching Sherlock for about 2 days and I was already on the fourth episode. By then end of the fourth, I could agree with Irene Adler on one point: I was completely, irrevocably Sherlocked. Keep in mind that on the date of this creation, I had not seen the next two episodes of the second season - though, I knew more or less what happened in The Reichenbach Fall *sob*. Anyway - I'm going to try to keep as true to the original characters as possible - while also adding as much fluff as possible. I hope you like it.**

* * *

><p>As John Watson walked into the strange building, annnoyance ate at him. Damn Mycroft Holmes and his inability to just <em>call<em> people. He entered a strange open area and chuckled softly to himself, looking around partly to see every exit in the room and partly to find Mycroft. His voice almost startled himself as he began to speak, the sound vibrating off the concrete walls.

"He's writing sad music." John said loudly, to the entire room. "Doesn't eat. Barely... talks, only to correct the television." His mind catalogued every window, every doorway, and every potential exit as he spoke; it was something he always did, but probably not as efficiently as Sherlock. "I'd say he's heartbroken, but... He's Sherlock." the army doctor shrugged before looking forward. "He does all that anyway..."

John's normally strong voice wavered with his last words, his eyes connecting with something he_ definitely_ had not expected to see: Irene Adler, alive, walking towards him. She stopped a fair distance away, her voice just as strong as it had been the last time John spoke to her. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

John contemplated her for a couple seconds, partly to register the fact that she was, indeed, alive, and partly because his mind had just kicked into overdrive. How _dare_ she be alive? This woman was the reason his very best friend, his Sherlock wouldn't eat, barely slept, and was just all-around miserable. When he spoke, his tone was both thinly veiled rage, and pleading. "Tell him you're alive."

A spark of bright anger tore at his insides when Irene barely shook her head, her voice wavering only slightly as she murmured, "He'd come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't." The soldier's voice was dark, his head tilting slightly to the side as if he needed to convince himself not to attack her then and there.

Her tone became a smirk though her lips didn't move. "Oh, I believe you."

"You were dead on a slab! Definitely you." shouted John. As he spoke, images of the last few weeks flashed through his mind, all painful and familiar. Sherlock, sitting at the table, staring at her camera phone. Sherlock standing, staring down at the street below as his fingers tremored painstakingly over the strings of his violin. Sherlock's dinner, untouched. Sherlock's usually bright eyes growing duller and darker, more sunken in than ever in their home above the consulting detective's perfect cheekbones.

John was so caught up in the memories of his friend's misery, he almost missed it when Irene spoke again. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep." Her voice was matter of fact, all traces of playfulness gone.

"And I bet you know the record keeper." The words were laced with disgust as he looked up at the woman in front of him.

"I know what he likes... and I needed to disappear." Irene folds her arms in front of herself, obviously defensive at John's words.

John's anger reached a boil in the pit of his stomach, and it was all he could do to not lose himself. "Then how come_ I_ can see you when I don't even want to?" His words were cold, eyes hard and jaw set.

He watched as she smirked, lifting her hands in a defensive gesture. "Look, I made a mistake... I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, and now I need it back... so I need your help."

"Nope." John says, childishly.

"It's for his own safety!" Irene's eyes widened the slightest bit, her pleading tone trying to get the point across.

"So is this." The authority in John's voice was impossible to miss; it was the same tone as someone who would try to pull rank on a younger or lesser military officer. For John, it usually only meant one thing: He meant business. "Tell him... you're alive."

For the first time since John met Irene Adler, she looked defeated. "I can't"

Rage flared up in John, and it started to become exceedingly impossible to control himself. His breathing became erratic, and he put the last of his effort into trying to control his voice. "Fine... _I'll_ tell him- and I still won't help you." And what that, John turned and started to walk away.

He could feel Irene's eyes burning holes in the back of his coat as he went, and wasn't surprised when finally she cried out, "What do I say?"

His control slipped for a moment. "_What do you normally say? You've been texting him a lot!_" He shouted, his voice ringing angrily off the concrete walls around them. When he realized he was shouting, he took a deep breath through his nose, letting it back out his mouth to calm his nerves.

John watched as Irene pulled her own mobile from her pocket, her arms crossing defensively in front of her as she started to scroll through her messages. "Just the usual stuff..."

"There is no 'usual' in this case." John shot back, his tone back down to thinly-concealed rage. He looked at the woman in front of him, deciding right then and there that, deep inside, he _hated_ Irene Adler for all she was and what she stood for. She had broken his Sherlock, which was unforgivable in his eyes. Sherlock obviously had feelings for this woman, and yet, she continued to have her fingers in many pies. Leading on his Sherlock. Now, that was something only Jim Moriarty got away with, and to John, it was a crime punishable by death.

The soft clicks of her phone's buttons rang out in the room as she scrolled thorugh the messages she had sent to Sherlock. "'Good morning.'... 'I like your funny hat'..." John looked away, listening for something that would have affected Sherlock so deeply. Idle chit-chat would not have such an affect on the sociopath. "'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner.'"

John looked up, his eyes meeting her face. She looked away from her phone, the last two messages memorized as she recited them for the doctor. "'Even sexy crimewatchers have dinner.'... 'I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner.'"

The disbelief was evident in John's face, as if the woman no more than 20 feet in front of him had just told him the Prime Minister had poisoned his tea. Carefully choosing his words, John spoke slowly and softly.

"You... _flirted_... with Sherlock Holmes." the words sounded clipped and measured, but also as if John couldn't believe what he just said.

"_At_ him." Irene corrects. "He never replies." She shrugs slowly with a smirk. He wanted to slap that smirk right off her face, but he couldn't register what she had just said. With much doubt, John thought deeply but quickly about what the Woman had just said.

"Sherlock _always_ replies, to everything. He- He's Mr. Punch Line. He will outlive_ God_ trying to have the last word." John explained slowly, as if to discredit her words. Sherlock, not reply? Unheard of. He almost didn't believe her, until his mind ran across all the 57 times he had recieved messages from her and realized she was right. He'd look at it, make a face, and put his phone down.

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly as she contemplated John's words. "Does that make me special?"

John's mind kicked into overdrive again, running through every single possibility he could think of. Sherlock not responding. Why? Why would he_ not_ respond? Did he hate her? No... even if he did, he'd respond. He always, _always_ responded to Moriarty's texts, and Jim was the most loathesome creature on the face of the earth. The doctor was at a loss.

"I don't know... maybe." John answered honestly, his eyebrows rising with his words.

"You jealous?" She asked softly, her lips in a tiny smirk.

The reaction was instantaneous and without thought or commitment as it always was, John licked his lips and said slowly, "We're not a couple." His left hand wrung the air habitually, a bit of annoyance lacing into his countenance.

"Oh, yes you are." Irene said scoldingly, not once looking up as she typed what could only be a message to Sherlock. John was quiet, thinking to himself. At the moment, he wanted nothing more but to be alone, and not to think about everything that was happening, not think about what the woman was implying, definitely not think about what it would be like if it were true for both parties involved. But, as John had learned in the military, appearance was everything. it had been conditioned into him from day one: Gays got beat. Gays got used. Gays were _not_ welcome where John was, and John learned quickly. The habit of keeping everything inside had become so commonplace, John himself didn't believe he had any interest in men, until he _really_ thought about it. It didn't matter, though.

"There." She said softly, breaking John's train of thought. Holding up her phone screen forward so John could see it (Though he couldn't possibly read it from that distance), she spoke aloud. "'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'" She clicks send, the look on her face close to 'I hope you know what you're getting me into'.

For a moment, a wave of releif washed over John Watson. He would be okay. Sherlock would be back to normal (as normal as Sherlock _could_ be, anyway), his friend would return, and all would be right with the world. However, the releif didn't let John forget what Irene had said earlier, and it wasn't a comment John was prepared to let slide, especially to someone who obviously had a lot of power and could slander Sherlock Holmes' good name.

As the soldier spoke, he found it almost impossible to look at Irene, his voice quiet, clipped, measured as if he was holding back every ounce of rage her comment had invoked in him. "Well, who... who the Hell knows about Sherlock Holmes... But, for the record- In case _anyone_ out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

Without missing a beat, Irene looked down the way at John with her funny little smirk and murmured, "Well, I _am_. Look at us both."

John chuckled disbelievingly, both anger and releif coursing through him. He was angry at Irene for even being alive, but marginally feeling incredible after knowing that Sherlock might just feel like himself again...

Then, it all came crashing down when a small, lewd mechanical voice rang out through the concrete room.

58, said his mental counter, as a look of horror crossed his face. Sherlock's phone. Sherlock was_ here_, and had heard _everything_. The sound was followed by long, staccato strides and the slam of a door that was the punctuation on a glaringly evident sentence- Somehow, though he didn't yet know how, John's best friend had just been very deeply hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sherlock - Amor et Veritatem (A JohnLock fiction)**_

_**Chapter One - In which John observes and tries to analyze the depression Sherlock goes into after the incident with Irene Adler**_

_**A/N- I realize the prologue was basically the same as it was in the episode (Minus John's thoughts and feelings), but, believe it or not, it iis/i necessary to the next few chapters of the story. Plus, it's a handy recap for those who haven't watched the episode recently (or re-watched the episode to write the prologue ;) )**_

_**Anyway - if you settle in for the confusion and angst for the next couple chapters, you will be rewarded with some glourious fluff 3 Enjoy~**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>One Week Later<strong>_

The soft pitter of rain on the roof of his bedroom lulled John as he lie in his bed. Strains of the sad song Sherlock was composing wafted up the stairs and under the door, adding a gloomy feeling to the normally calming rain. Darkness was falling over the city slowly, taking away the remaining visibility of John's bedroom. Since that fateful night Sherlock had overheard his conversation with the woman, it would seem to any normal passerby that nothing had really changed.

John Watson, however, was no normal passerby.

The doctors keen's gaze missed little when it came to his best friend, noticing little things that others didn't take the time to care about. It would seem that John had picked up Sherlock's powers of deduction - but only when concerning Sherlock himself.

Something was different about Sherlock's latest bout of depression. Not only was Sherlock still not eating and sleeping even less, the piece he was composing seemed to be the saddest piece for violin John had ever heard. As he pondered, the haunting melody found ways to dig into the Soldier's bones.

John had asked Sherlock about the piece earlier, in passing. He couldn't even remember exactly what he had said, except fot it was along the lines of, 'Composing, Sherlock?' to which the response was, "It helps me to think." As John watched Sherlock jot a few notes down on the slightly yellowed staff paper, his eyes wandered to the title of the piece. In Sherlock's own bold handwriting, the word 'Veritatem' -Of Truth- stood out in black ink.

With the music dancing through his mind, John let his mind wander, drifting along the chords played by his talented roommate. The doctor pondered what the reason for Sherlock's misery could be, and could only come up with one reason- _her_. At the thought of Irene Adler, the creases on John's forehead appeared in dynamic detail as he glared up at his ceiling. Her. How he despised that woman...

What had she done?

Penetrated the impregnable fortress of Sherlock's mind, possibly... Maybe even made him... (Dare he think it?) fall in _love_ with her. He felt sick to his stomach at that thought, his hand coming up to his abdomen in the almost-darkness. How could she? How _dare _she? To have something of this ground-breaking proportion happen to Sherlock would take massive force, maybe even drugs...

The soldier in John flared up in rage at the thought of _his_ Sherlock, helpless to fight this mind-draining drug it invented. The doctor in him simply shook his head at the thought. Even with as much power as Irene had, it would still take years of medical expertise to create a hormone or drug as powerful as to alter the subconscious affection.

_Veritatem,_ thought John, the word dancing in his brain. _Veritatem_. John's brain, though tired, still tried to pick apart the meaning behind the word. Veritatem. Of truth. John scoffed. A sad song titled 'Of Truth'? The very idea seemed atrocious to the ex army doctor. He knew that Sherlock reveled in the truth. He _basked_ and practically _glowed _in the light of truth! Why would he compose a piece out of sadness for it...?

John sighed in frustration as he looked over to his door, the violin's melancholy strains still slipping underneath the hard wood.

Of truth. Veritatem. Apparently, the truth would have to be sad.

But... what had that _blasted_ Woman said that would be a sad truth for John's Sherlock, the Sherlock before this newest bout of depression? What could she have stated in those few precious moments John stood with her to derail the Consulting Detective so cunningly? _What was wrong?_

More than an hour filled with annoyance and frustration passed for John before he finally fell into a fitful, light and dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>The morning came far too soon for John, his tired form slumped in his chair with a teacup almost limply held in his hand. He fought to keep his eyes open as he stared out the foggy window, the gray sky beyond threatening those below with more rain.<p>

The sounds around John lulled him into a state of satisfied stupor - the gentle hum of the icebox in the kitchen, the soft drip-drip of the faucet into the kettle, Sherlock's steady breathing... the soft sound of drums in the street...

The last sound eventually made John's brow furrow in confusion and he stood, walking to the fogged window beside Sherlock on the sofa to place a hand against the cold window.

"Pride parade." Sherlock murmured, his voice thick with tiredness even as he spread resin over the bow of his violin. He had obviously not slept - His normally perfect curls fell in a disheveled mess, while the bags under his eyes were worse than ever. His long fingers trembled slightly around the instrument in his grasp.

The doctor nodded distractedly, his eyes grazing over the loudly designed rainbow flags and clothing. Despite the threat of rain, those in the procession seemed to be happy and uncaring about the gloom and chill in the weather. He almost smiled at the sight, when words from a week ago reached out to tap John on the shoulder.

-"Well, who... who the Hell knows about Sherlock Holmes... But, for the record- In case _anyone _out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

Without missing a beat, Irene looked down the way at John with her funny little smirk and murmured, "Well, I _am_. Look at us both." -

_Well, I_ am._ Look at us both._

_**I am.**_

The sudden realization hit him in the face, piercing him like a thousand knives as it took his breath like a cab with no breaks. How could he be so _stupid?_ Here he was, less than two feet from a man who obviously was harbouring conflicted feelings of _adoration_ for Irene Adler, had believed her to be dead, and never thought to have a chance with her again. Putting himself in Sherlock's shoes, he tried to imagine the elation he would have felt, and then the crushing blow it would have been to find out... even though she still lived, he had no chance with her.

She was alive, but claimed to be a homosexual. Sherlock didn't have a chance.

A newborn pain, birthed_ of truth. Veritatem._

_Oh, God._

"John? Are you listening, dear? A parade, dear. You and Sherlock should go watch it. I think it's just what you need." Mrs. Hudson's voice chirped from the doorway as she examined the boys in front of her.

"Busy." Sherlock murmured as he set the bow across the strings, his eyes leveling to examine the score of his piece before him. John glanced down, dread creeping over him. He really_ couldn't_ bear to listen to Sherlock play this piece again, especially now that he knew the content's true meaning. Shaking off distraction, he glanced up at the lady in the doorway.

"Parade, what...? No, no... I think I'll take a walk, get some air." John reached for his coat, slinging the green material over his shoulders to climb down the stairs, almost taking them two at a time before that first note strummed from the instrument in those beautiful hands. "Won't be gone long, Mrs. Hudson."

Before he could make it out the door, John heard Mrs. Hudson's hushed voice as she spoke to Sherlock, saying how he 'really should eat, dearie. The chill in this place is dreadful. You'll catch cold...' Then, the door to the flat was closed, and John's world became blurs of colours and sounds, the air filling his lungs and taking him from this dark place inside Sherlock's depression.


End file.
